


Nothing

by gonan



Series: gallavich oneshots [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, No Beta, Suicidal Thoughts, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonan/pseuds/gonan
Summary: Ian hates his meds.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: gallavich oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629238
Comments: 7
Kudos: 153





	Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not feeling great lately and I think I just need to get this off my chest before I can start writing again. I’m sorry
> 
> Please don’t read this if you think it will upset you. I’ll probably delete it soon I just thought I would post it in between updates - and in case anyone needs to know that they’re not alone if they’re feeling down

It’s weeks after their honeymoon and just as they’re getting settled into their newlywed lives, Ian drops like the other shoe he knew would come crashing down eventually. After the elation of marrying Mickey cutting through the flatness of his meds, the balance of the universe had to be restored in the form of three days in bed refusing food and water.

And he knows what it’s doing to Mickey. What it’s doing to his whole family. Fiona was always the best at caretaking, got him to take his lithium or go out for a run or whatever he needed to be doing so that he wasn’t doing nothing. Now that she’s gone, no one knows quite what to do with him when he’s like this. They all look to Mickey to take her place - and this is exactly what he’d been afraid of. That his husband would end up as his nurse instead of his partner. He hates it. He hates being guilted into taking his pills, he hates having to take them at all. He hates that look Mickey gets when he doesn’t, the crease between his brows that tells he’s remembering all the things he did when he was off them. All the things he could do.

Mickey once asked him what it felt like to take his meds. In comparison to the intense emotions he lived with otherwise, he wondered how they effected his moods and if they helped in general. 

Ian doesn’t remember what he’d told him. He knows he hadn’t told him the truth, which was that sometimes they sucked the color from everything around him. There was nothing that was usually there. No happiness. No sadness. Not even love, and that’s the worst part of it. Because he can’t tell his husband that he doesn’t love him, not right now, because he can’t feel much of anything, and love is just another unfortunate casualty to his numbness.

Mickey says his name as he comes into the room with another failed attempt to get him to eat something. This time: a chocolate croissant from the bakery in the nice part of town, one of Ian’s favorites. He feels bad as soon as he sees it; it will be such a waste to turn it down, but he knows he will. Because as soon as his husband opened the door, the name he spoke sounded wrong as it fell from his tongue, as if it couldn’t possibly be his. As if he could even have a name to call his own.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty. Sit up, it’s dinner time,” Mickey says, pulling a chair over and setting the plateful of pastry on the nightstand above his head. Ian doesn’t tell him that he knows it’s well past 11pm, that the digital clock tells him as much. He sniffs at the air but makes no move towards the offering. After the first day the hunger-induced headache has dulled into an unnoticeable and almost pleasant void, and the dryness of his mouth is the only thing that he can feel alongside the throbbing of his left hand.

He bit off the skin on one of his knuckles last night and now Mickey is hovering more than usual. He’s already washed it, disinfected it, and dressed it, and yet his hands twitch towards it from where he sits next to their bed every so often as if there’s more he can do. There’s not. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it from happening again, just like there’s nothing Ian himself can do. 

“Ian. Come on, it’s not good to take your pills on an empty stomach. And you _need_ to take your pills,” his voice wavers on the last sentence, and fuck, if Ian could get his limbs to work he would do it, just for Mickey. But he can’t. And he can’t tell him why. He can’t even cry in his frustration at being comatose inside his own body. He doesn’t feel enough emotion for that.

The most he can bring himself to do is meet Mickey’s eyes over the edge of his blanket. Immediately Ian wishes he hadn’t. His husband’s eyes are glazed with half formed tears, a thin red crescent resting under each of them. Ian blinks his response. His apology. His whatever. The tears tip over at his presumed apathy.

“Please,” Mickey begs. “Say something. Fuckin’ anything. I hate this mute shit.”

Ian manages a light hum from the back of his throat. He can’t do any more than that. He wishes he could.

“Fuck, Gallagher,” Mickey runs a hand through his hair, gel long since lost its hold. He shifts forward in his chair so his elbows rest on his spread knees. Ian catches the glint of his wedding ring from where his hand shields the tears running down his cheeks.

He wants to do something for him. Anything he can.

So he scoots back, just barely, watching Mickey to make sure he notices. After a moment, he does. With a last sniffle and a hand over his tear soaked face, he slides into bed with Ian, ducking under his blanket.

Ian situates himself so that his back is flush against the wall. This is as close as he will allow him for today. He peers into Mickey’s beautiful eyes, the bloodshot whites electrifying his ice blue irises into something molten. There is so much pain in them. His chest heaves with the movement of his heart, shifting like part of an iceberg running off into dark water.

Without warning Mickey reaches out behind him, fumbling around until he secures his prize: the abandoned croissant. And in the face of those burning eyes, Ian can’t deny him, even like this. So he opens his mouth for the bite that Mickey tears off for him. He feels like a goddamn baby bird, completely pathetic, but it’s worth the small triumphant smile that Mickey gives him as he chokes down the sweet sludge.

His husband succeeds in feeding him another small piece, but when the food drops sickeningly into his stomach Ian turns over to face the wall. He can’t look at him now, can’t see that smile slip from his face as he realizes that this is as far as he will get with Ian for the night.

A small sigh leaves Mickey, preceding the arms that loop around Ian’s waist from behind. He is only ever the little spoon in times like these. It makes him dread the familiar weight of the man he loves along his spine.

“Tomorrow I’m gonna make you an omelette. Like the best fuckin’ omelette you’ve ever seen. I’ll go grocery shopping in the morning. Shit’s gonna smell so good that you’re gonna jump right the fuck out of bed and trip all over yourself to eat it. Okay?” Mickey finds his hand under the covers and squeezes it once. He’s really trying; it breaks Ian’s heart. But just the thought of waking up to another day, in the same shit body, in the same (almost) shit life, makes him crave an unceremonious, quiet death in his sleep. 

Ian wishes he were dead.

It’s this thought that finally brings the tears. 


End file.
